


meet clean

by the bloodsucking brady bunch (Ejunkiet)



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Asexual Raphael Santiago, Gen, Graduate School, Laundry, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-24 02:12:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13203564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ejunkiet/pseuds/the%20bloodsucking%20brady%20bunch
Summary: It’s two o’clock in the morning in East Harlem, and it's far too late to be doing laundry.--Meet-cute: laundry edition. Simon Lewis and Raphael Santiago.





	meet clean

It’s two o’clock in the morning in East Harlem and it's far too late to be doing laundry.

Simon knows this, feels it in the judgmental stares of the people he passes on the street, laundry hamper clutched tightly to his chest as he mutters a quick prayer to whoever may be listening that his boxers are buried deep enough within the bundle so as not to be visible – but the fact of the matter remains that he’d only learned about the state of his building’s laundry facilities the day _after_ he’d moved in, and he couldn’t put off doing his laundry any longer.

He’s a _student_ , okay; he doesn’t have the money to just _buy new underwear_ every time the washer in the basement of his building breaks down.

Although, his landlord _had_ promised that the repairs would take just one more day…

“No,” he says aloud, earning a startled look from a man who happened to be walking past at just the wrong moment, “that is _not_ happening.”

He’s twenty-three for Christ’s sake, supposedly an _Adult._ He can do his damn laundry at whatever time in the goddamn night he damn-well pleased.

He hunches his shoulders and sets his jaw, raising his head a little as he increases his pace, watchful as he approaches the part of his neighborhood with the busted streetlight. He may have lived in the city all his life, but he’s not stupid; he’d learned early on to beware of dark corners, and his eyes flicker between the lingering shadows as he steps down from the pavement and onto the road. It doesn’t help that the sky is particularly overcast tonight, obscuring any natural light that might have made its way into the city, a prelude to the winter storms predicted to hit the city tomorrow.

He takes a breath, and holds it, recites one of his favorite passages of the Torah under his breath,  and it helps, a little; gets him through the worst part of his neighborhood, past the group of kids loitering on the benches beside the bus stop, his palms sweaty and his heart racing a little too fast in his chest.

It’s a set of traffic lights and another block to the launderette, but he’s back under the hazy yellow glow of the streetlamps and his grip eases on the handles of his laundry hamper. His pace doesn’t slow though, and when he reaches the actual building and finds that his friend Google hadn’t failed him and the place actually _is_ open, he’s so grateful he could almost kiss the buzzing neon tubes of the launderette’s OPEN sign.

He settles for a subtle, passionate fist pump before he shoulders his way through the door, sending the little old fashioned metal bell set into the frame jingling as he steps into the heady humidity of the launderette interior.

It takes a second for his eyes to adjust to the abrupt change in lighting, and he blinks under the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights, loosening his grip on the bag of laundry as he lets it fall to the floor by his feet. The place is small, with little more than half a dozen machines, and smells strongly of detergent and dryer sheets, but it's clean and well-maintained, which is more than he’d been expecting, honestly, given the shape of his apartment building and the surrounding neighborhood.  

He’d chosen this area for the affordability, not the location, and while he didn't mind the extra stops on the M line or the fact that he had to leave his wallet and take his burner phone when making late night trips like this, he’s fully aware of East Harlem’s reputation.

But this place- it even has an _ironing board_ and a _tie press_. Someone has invested some serious cash into this building, and the fact it _hasn’t_ been torn apart by the local criminal elements is almost unbelievable.

It’s also deserted at this time of night, which is unsurprising, and pretty much all of the machines are free, aside from one dryer rumbling pleasantly in the corner. Simon makes a beeline for the closest available washer, rooting around in his pockets for the handful of dollar bills he’d grabbed from his wallet before he left. It’s enough, he thinks, glancing at the prices taped to the back wall, to wash all of his delicates and his shirt and khakis for tomorrow.

He glances up at the water-stained ceiling - hey, no place was perfect - and murmurs a quick thanks to whoever’s listening. Maybe this night wouldn’t be as terrible as he’d been expecting.

He’s just finished jamming his money into the machine and started loading his laundry into the washer when the bell clatters above the door behind him, signaling the entrance of another late night laundry-doer. The dryer beeps in the corner, indicating the end of the cycle, and the newcomer heads over to it, footsteps clipped and even against the vinyl flooring.

Simon finishes punching in the settings and starts the wash before glancing over, curious despite himself. While it’s comforting to know he’s not the only person out this late, he has his _reasons_ \- his life was a mess, he’d just moved halfway across the city because his previous landlord had been arrested, and he was literally down to his last pair of clean underwear - and he’s honestly curious to see who else would be out doing laundry out this late _._

He catches a glimpse of dark hair and handsome features before he ducks down behind the dryer door, unloading a selection of dark shirts into the hamper by his feet. Simon watches for a moment, waiting for him to finish, a quip on his tongue about insomniacs and laundry that withers there the moment the man closes the dryer door and gets to his feet, as holy _shit._

The man looks as if he’s stepped straight out of a magazine, one that sold expensive watches and designer suits, and advertised tailors for said designer suits. He doesn’t look as if he belongs anywhere _near_ East Harlem, let alone a hole-in-the-wall launderette in the bad side of town.

Simon blinks when he realises he’s staring and glances up to find the other man’s eyes on him, watching him in turn. His eyes are dark, almost black in the cheap yellow of the fluorescent lights, framed by a set of lowered narrow brows that are judging him heavily.

“Can I help you?”

“Uh. No. I was just,” he gestured awkwardly at the machine in front of him, biting into his lip as he looks down at his hands. God, he wasn’t normally this awkward. “Doing laundry?”

He doesn’t know why he phrases it as a question. The other man glances back at the machine, an eyebrow raised close to his hairline.

“Clearly.” The sarcasm hangs heavy in his tone, and if Simon cared enough, he could take offense at that.

He reaches down to grasp the hamper by his feet, turning to the ironing board set up in the corner. He doesn’t say anything further as he selects one of the shirts from the pile, laying it out carefully, and Simon turns to check on his machine, chewing on his tongue as he estimates the amount of time he has left.

Thirty minutes. He’ll hang his laundry up to dry when he makes it back to his apartment - no point in spending cash he doesn’t have when he has a perfectly functional clothes drying rack back at his place.

Heaving out a sigh, he shoots one more glance at the man in corner before heading over to the only available seating in the entire joint - a set of cheap plastic chairs positioned by the window, facing inwards.

Pulling out his old Nokia, he fiddles with it for a moment before flicking through the settings and starting up a game of snake. It works to kill a bit of time, but he’s gotten too good at it, and it's not long before he finds that he’s not even paying attention to the game anymore, just staring blankly into space. He puts the phone away, scrubbing his hands across his face before stifling a yawn against his forearm.

God, he’s tired.

He lets out a long exhale, and it’s as if his whole body deflates with it, the weight of the week settling down onto his shoulders like the old winter coat he’d inherited from his grandfather, heavy and familiar. He slumps further down into his seat, twisting to the side until he can curl up his legs beside him, resting his cheek against his knees. Inevitably, his eyes are drawn to the curl of steam in the corner, and he watches as the other man finishes the shirt he was working on, folding it carefully. He’s careful with the creases, manipulating the expensive fabric with practised ease.

“You’re good at that.”

He’s not sure why he decides to break the comfortable silence with that ridiculous statement. Probably it's the weeks of self-imposed isolation catching up with him. Really, he’s not expecting a response, and so he's unsurprised when he doesn’t get one. Simon sighs, rubbing his face into his knees, exhaling slowly.

“I have an important meeting tomorrow – well, today. With an academic panel. I’m writing a thesis. I’ve written a thesis,” he corrects himself, flipping the phone between his hands, “and they’re testing me on it. It’s my _viva voce_. Research masters.”

He’s talking more to himself, really. For what purpose, he’s not sure. The tension sits low and heavy in his chest, in the tightness of his stomach when he thinks about it. He tries not to think about it, when he can help it.

“You’re a student?”

The voice is a low murmur, barely audible above the machines, and Simon glances up to find the man’s dark eyes on him.

“Yeah, Brooklyn.”

“That’s quite a way from here.”

Simon huffs out a soft laugh. “Yeah. But the rent is cheaper here, so.”

The man nods, returns to his ironing. Simon thinks about school, about his meeting tomorrow. The machines rumble, the low hiss of steam as the iron starts up again. The buzz of the neon lettering flickering above him is just audible over the rumble of the machines, and the faint hiss of steam from the corner brings back memories of lazy summer afternoons in the country, the hazy hum of the cicadas as he’d lounged on the porch...

The next thing he knows, there’s a hand on his arm shaking him, and he blinks his eyes open to see a man crouched before him, dark hair and even darker eyes.

“Hey.”

He blinks; blinks again, struggling to orient himself. Soap. Detergent.  Laundry. _Launderette._

“The wash is finished.”

“Mmm.”

He starts to get up and nearly loses his balance on the seat, wincing in preparation for impact before a hand falls on his shoulder, steadying him. He blinks down at light olive skin and carefully maintained fingernails, before the hand pulls away.

“Thanks.”

“De nada.”

He pushes himself upright, fumbling for his glasses before he remembers he’s wearing contacts, which explains why his eyelids feel so thick and sticky right now. He resists the urge to rub at them, glancing back at the man standing before him.

“I’m Simon, by the way.”

There’s a long moment of silence after that, and he’s not really expecting an answer, before-

“Raphael.”

He still looks serious, and Simon gets the impression that there are few times when he doesn't, but there’s a softening in his expression, and his dark eyes are kind.

“It’s nice to meet you, Raphael.”

The man’s lips quirk into a smile. It's brief, a glimpse of teeth before he straightens and gestures to the window. The sky has lightened into a dusky blue, bathing the street in a mild twilight that's still too dim to see by. It's too early for birds, but it won't be for long.

“It's nearly dawn. What time is your assessment?”

Soon. Too soon.

“Shit,” is the first thing out of Simon’s mouth before he’s leaping out of his seat and scrambling for the washers, pulling out his wet laundry out in heaps before piling it into the basket he’d brought with him. “Shit, shit, _shit._ ”

He’ll use the drier back at his place - _that_ at least still works - and finish the rest of his prep work on the way. He still has time, he tells himself - just not much of it.

Arms overflowing with sodden, heavy laundry, he turns to where Raphael is stood, watching him, an amused smile tweaking the corners of his mouth.

“Thank you for waking me,” he manages with a smile, before nodding in a jerky motion towards the laundrette door. “Would you mind..?”

Raphael acquiesces with a nod, the same damn smile curling his lips as he watches Simon struggles to cross the threshold, his basket balanced precariously in his grip.

“Good luck,” he hears from the doorway as he finds his feet and starts the slow, steady trek down the street, but when he glances back behind him to flash a grateful smile at Raphael, the other man is gone.


End file.
